Reel to Reel Tapes of Biden partying with Botendaddy in the 70’s surface! Smokin’ that dank out! A 4.06 Mile Trail Run.

“The Maunder Minimum. It’s is the amount of running mileage needed by the Solstice to achieve a ‘Big Year’ of running. Follow the science 🧪 you fat sexy f&$k! Look at my ass… it’s perfect!”

Shroake the Stalker, pulling down her cotton shorts 🩳 and rancid, stained tasty 👅 panties.

Trail of humidity

“Do you like what you doth see? Yon Botendaddy? Are you even half a man?”

She Shroake.

I commenced to running. We were passed by an amazing array of electric bicycles 🚴 piloted by those too lazy to exercise.

Our first mile was disappointing, but it’s difficult to be motivated in 84 degree heat and 70% humidity.

Our second mile, still on the downhill was equally bad. We turned around on Frogger 🐸 road narrowly avoiding death and dangling a modifier.

Weird rock formation

We staggered uphill to a shittacious three mile and worse 5k time.

We did an uninspired four mile time and we stopped at 4.06 miles.

I still need an extra 0.99 miles (that’s something metric thingy distance) to make the Maunder Minimum.”

Also spraach der Botendaddy.

“This blows Anus. Let’s get into your infinity ♾ pool 🏊‍♀️ at Utonic Manor and f&$k.”

Shroake the Stalker

“Iced mocha ☕️ with tiramisu?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

Life after COVID: Work from home is Dead.

I am the greatest futurist of all time!

I have the highest IQ possible! I am the smartest man at the world!

Colored dauggerotype Berlin neue Zukunft Städt, 1936 Architect Gropiüs Miës von Schlitterbahn restored 2009

Here’s the scoop. Major companies are already stampeding to get workers back into the office. True gravitas soulless corporate leaders hate work from home.

They hate anything that isn’t sex-crazed corporate fascism. Several major corporate announcements have occurred literally this week. ‘However’, I said ‘literally’ as I use both words whenever I want to. That’s what I’m playing at. It’s where I’m coming from. I end sentences with prepositions. Plus I use commas thusly my main damies: A, B and C. Not A, B, and C. Which means A and B and and C.

They love barbed wire, they love Teutonic shrieking over loudspeakers 📢, they love face-slapping, monocles, shrieking Stuka dive bombers, barking German Shepherds, U-boats, bonfire rallies and invading Poland.

Big real estate is in a panic over work from home. They will do everything possible to kill it. Cities need taxes. City businesses need people.

Olympic Rowing Trials – Regensburg, Dritte Reich Presse Offiziell Coloured Tinotype 1936 restored 2007

There is a trade-off of working from home and it has nothing to do with missing ‘collaboration’. That is 1984-like horse-shit 🐎 💩 gas ⛽️ lighting. Everyone is collaborating fine.

Besides the obvious security risks and difficulty of locking-down information and systems and the risks of random power outages, there is no real problem with work from home.

Here is the hypocrisy: there are overseas teams in India, China, Vietnam, Australia, Ireland. There are offsite and offshore vendors for technology, data management, payroll management and customer service – they will all remain offsite – no need to ‘collaborate’. Nor does anyone know what they’re up to. Corporate just pays the bill.

It’s about control. Like a serial killer and yes – like Hitler. The shrieking Master of the Third Reich (Pronounced Wrische). Hitler wanted everyone at work. At Genocide! If you don’t support work from home than you support Genocide! You are literally Hitler!

Enough about Hitler.

So for the next fifty years, there will be COVID babies who have a secret pantry filled with masks, hand sanitizer, bottled water and emergency food. But in the next 60 days, all traces of COVID response which was used to defeat the evil, sexy, crazed, baby-eating Trumpzilla monster will fade away.

The worst casualty will be work from home. It will die a horrible and very quick death ☠️.

Stage One: (COVID Emergency declared over by state) Corporate leader announces all customer-facing people need to come into work.

Stage Two (60 days after COVID): People who work with and support those customer-facing people have to come into work.

Stage Three (Six months after COVID) All new people have to come into work for the first 90-180 days then they can work at home if approved)

Stage Four (One year after COVID) Technical Support, enhanced stipend for WiFi and printer cartridges etc. comes to an end). Office space redesign with hotel cubes etc. is replaced by permanent cubes.

Stage Five: (18 Months after COVID)

Some ‘scandal’ erupts with Work From Home. All workers are now under scrutiny with STASI monitoring and Gestapo (GeheimStadtsPolizei) surveillance of worker bathroom 🚽 time. Minor infractions such as being seen on Qoom or Quicrosoft Qeams in adult diaper, panties, naked or inside the toilet lead to excessive punishment by termination or being forced back to the office.

Stage Six (Two years after COVID) An HR reassessment of work from home is done. Only those employees most valuable and most at risk of leaving are allowed to work from home. All other must return or be fired.

Stage Seven (30 months after COVID)

All employees must work from home except those with the most Extrême, valuable and irreplaceable skills and experience.

Stage Eight (Three Years after COVID) Work from home is neither supported nor recommended – only a few high-value stragglers who will be gradually replaced after they retires or leave.

P.S. I hate working from home 🏠. I am a scientist goddamn it!

Remember you heard it here first.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Botendaddy closer to Maunder Minimum for Mileage Big Year! Putin to have been nodding approvally!

“HAAAAATE! Die you grease golem! Baby Beluga! Crisco Demon, Hamplanet and your mini moons 🌚 of stupid fatties! O’ Lord Brimley! God of Beetus! O’ strike dead this fat Botendaddy and his Calorie thief waddlers! Kill this shittacious diaperous Botendaddy!”

Shroake the Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady

“Racist, sexist, homophobic, islamophobic, anti-Semitic, Capitol rioter, hate-monger, climate changer! A photo of your anus tattoo was seen at the Capitol!”

Shroake the Angry 😤 Online 👨‍💻 Social Justice Warrior Guy

“The only climate change is in Botendaddy’s yummy 😋 adult 🧑 diaper ☠️ 🤮 💩 ☢️!”

Shroake the VFPHVSL.

Photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels.com

“Hey AOSJWG, don’t snitch, baby 👶 snitches end up up ditches, can you smell what the D is cooking 🍳?”

Shroake Devon

“Strate up young du’, don’t be snitching on the Writer’s Workshop little ¥£>%#*. You dig, my trill azz AOSJWG? For life, Yo’ For life! Word is motherfelon bond, dig? Now you make me nervous 😬. I be thinking you gonna’ snitch!”

Botendaddy throws ‘WW’ gang sign 🪧. Niner is visible in his sag busting waist belt under his bandana. AOSJWG starts sweating 😓 profusely.

“Nah man, Yo. I ain’t no snitch! WW for life!”

Shroake the AOSJWG

Original Botendaddy Art Shot

Botendaddy visibly calms down.

“OK cool man. Let’s run.

Our first mile was slow. People locked themselves in their houses cowering and praying as the vicious urban Workshoppiers running gang in WW bandanas with tats and Gucci running shoes and Louis belts passed by. Other people hid in their garages with Extreme AK-74 Assault rifles, Galils and AR something or other Gun thingys.

Our second mile was OK, but our third mile and 5k times were Doo-Doo crap.

We stopped at 4.20 miles 4:20, get it?

Photo by Mauru00edcio Eugu00eanio on Pexels.com

“When are you hamplanets gonna f@&k me into this gang! This stinky rotting reeking dripping pu$$¥ isn’t going to f%#k itself! Get to work boys! I need it! I deserve it! I am a woman! I have a right to be 🥰 loved! Now police 👮‍♀️ up those goddamned 🐓 s and get to work!”

Shroake the Voat Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady whilst pulling down her shorts and stained smelly del.icio.us panties revealing her enormous cavernous echoing worn-out yummy 🤤 tasty 👅 punany.

“Iced mocha ☕️ with nutmeg?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

Mega-Storm Destroys Writer’s Workshop! Botendaddy’s body ‘too disgusting to recover’! Biden declares emergency!

We were coming back from the old free weight gym at the University after the Pride ⚧ 🏳️‍⚧️ 🏳️‍🌈 Month writing ✍️ Extravaganza. Swole’ Bro 😎 won second place with some essay about something tasty 😋 that happened in a sauna 🧖 in Frostburg.

The old gym is the one strictly limited to top research 🔬 grant leaders like the Botendaddy, Extrême faculty like zür Professor 👩‍🏫 and del.icio.us wealthy donors, like the Gryczwacz 👽 family.

We did the upper body workout:

Shoulder raises – seven directions, Bench Press, Lat Pulldowns, Bent Row, Olympic Press, End Row, Preacher Curl – Close Grip, Curl – Wide Grip, Tricep Pressdown, Sit-ups and Bent Leg Raises (No they are not called reverse crunches, that is made-up unicorn 🦄 phony bullshit.)

“We’ll never make it!”

Shroake the Librarian

We weren’t going that way

“It’s too late! We’re trapped!”

The Extreme Mystery Van had to turn around. Ygor is an excellent chauffeur. We didn’t spill a single drop of Dom Perignon.

Intersection Flooded

“Look we have caviar and craquelins de blé.”

I Shroake

“Look the van is hype. We’ve got food, music, ladies (Pronounced Leigh-Tease).”

Shroake Devon

Not going this way either

“Do you think you’re man enough to handle these puppies, young man?”

Shroake the CEO exposing her firm tasty 👅 yummy 🤤 breasts.”

Nor this way

“Your tay-tays l are as fine as Botendaddy’s photography! They are… wait for it… yum 🤤.”

Shroake Devon

“This blog is often an excuse for Botendaddy’s photography when he isn’t inserting random pexels pics. It’s all bullshit. Look at my ass! It’s perfect 🤩! Do you like what you doth see, earth 🌎 man?”

Shroake the Librarian pulling up her shirt skirt, pulling down her panties and shoving her dripping schnoo in my hideous visage.

“Iced pineapple 🍍 matcha 🍵?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

U.S. Women Veterans Day: This we’ll Defend.

Aunt Bessie.

One of the first women to make Master Sergeant in the Women’s Army Corps.

She served in the European Theatre in World War II.

Photo by Sharefaith on Pexels.com

On my mantle at Utonic Manor, is a sepia-toned dauggerotype of Bessie with her gals at Camp Drum before they went overseas.

She also served on President Truman’s staff.

Photo by Aaron Kittredge on Pexels.com

She was a lovely, classy woman.

She lived in a cottage in Mill Valley, California when she was elderly. It had Dutch doors. She used to bake me cookies.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

As in the family tradition, five generations, now, she served in the United States 🇺🇸 Army.

I remember you today. I miss you. I hope you would be as proud of my service and all of us who followed you, as I was of yours.

“This we’ll defend.”

Peace be the Botendaddy

The Recalls

I was out of the National Guard for six years as of January 1942. I was 56 years old. I weighed 284 pounds at 6 foot 4. I joined the Army in 1904. I served in the Philippines, The Mexican Border, the Great War and the Russian Expedition.

Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

I was an artilleryman – a forward observer and an aerial observer. I hit the wall in 1936 as a Lieutenant Colonel. Nowhere to go except limbo, then wait until age 60 for a pension.

My daughter was already gone as an Army Nurse. She was at Ft. Hamilton in New York. My neighbor the widow Mrs. Elke Van Eyck handed me the telegram. I was recalled and ordered to report to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, processing via Camp Drum.

I was declared healthy but fat. Three days there, then I was advised that I had ten days to report to Ft. Drum. I gave the van Eyck’s keys to my house and my attorney, Jan vaan Bleecker, Esquire gave them a stipend to maintain the place out of the family trust.

I decided to drive to Ft. Sill. I had just purchased a 1941 Ford Super Deluxe Wagon. Good for camping.

I missed my missus. She was gone five years now. We had traveled across the country a few times together. Now I was alone and I was traveling to a dead-end training assignment for the War.

I had been working as an engineer in Corning. I was the old man there. They were stunned by the recall.

“What the actual fandango? Pete this is nuts! I suppose you’ll be back. I hope these idiots you trained can handle process control. I won’t have any adult company, just a bunch of 4-F pencil ✏️ necks. Oh well. Write if you get work.”

Shroake my boss, Hans vaan Brueeck.

And down the road I went – with my road atlases in hand. I headed for Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, Columbus, St. Louis, Kansas City, Topeka, Oklahoma City then Lawton.

I met the General. P. C. Farnsworth of Montpelier Vermont a reservist and fellow veteran of the Great War. He had one mission for me. Spend 90 days planning training and lose 75 pounds. He put a fat chart of the 30 older officers who were recalled for all to see at Corps Headquarters. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By February I weighed 259 pounds. I did fitness training with the cadre five days a week and I planned forward observation training, map reading training, Battalion and Regimental HQ fire support staff training. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By March, I weighed 234 pounds. My uniforms started to fit, but I wasn’t ready to be around troops. All of us grandpas were told the same thing. An 18 month call up for training then we’d be released. We were too old to go fight. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By April, I weighed 205 pounds. I could run in formation and go on bivouacs in the scrub country. I taught young officers how to plan air attacks, how to call Artillery and Mortars. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By May, I weighed 190 pounds and I was given command of a training Regiment of 36 105mm cannons. Not too shabby. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By June, we were given increasingly complex training plans and we were assigned to the August Maneuvers in Texas. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By July, I was fully reinstated to active duty along with the other 29 old guys and our orders now said for the duration of the conflict. Oh well. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

July, like June was grueling with every aspect of Artillery from crew to platoon to Battery to Battalion to staff to fire support trained to standard, just like the Great War. New trucks, new ammo. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

We did quite well at the August maneuvers. We had draftees, Coastal Artillery and Army Reserve Artillery. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By September we were fully manned and our training continued in earnest. They then shipped us to the Canal Zone for jungle training. Then back to Ft. Sill. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

By October we were reorganized as separate Artillery Battalions, instead of as a regiment. The boys would be going to the Pacific. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

We were next sent to Hawaii, where I trained first Battalion in Naval Gunfire and air support. I awaited orders to return to Ft. Sill and I expected some young artillery Major to replace me. We were informed by Washington that we were never going to actually fight overseas. We were just too old.

I had a small single building as my HQ. I was sipping Panamanian coffee. General Farnsworth stopped in.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Pete. You’ve done a nice job. You got thin too. You look good. You don’t look like an old man. You have a full head of hair like your dad did. I remember him in France. Good Officer he was. Tough old goat. Shame what happened at Varennes. Anyway, you can keep up with these kids. I needed a real artilleryman to train these boys. Made me proud. Last month, I asked Washington to keep you around. The men trust you. So you’re going to New Guinea with them. As a matter of fact, all of you old guys did well, so they’re all going to one theatre or the other.

Age is only a number, my boy.

Age is only a number.”

Shroake the General

Found in a Journal in Utonic Manor Library – ex Libris Shadrach Meschach Abednego Botendaddy,

In loving memory – your great-nephew The Botendaddy

Where did the American Nostalgia for the Wild West come from?

‘Yippie Ki-Yi-Yay 🎼 git along little dogies’ (Pronounced Dough Guys) So America has the California Gold Rush of 1849 and then the Alaska Klondike Gold Rush of 1898.

Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

In between were the Civil War, the Industrial Age, the Labor Movement, the Indian Wars, the Golden Spike, the Railroads, the Pony Express, the singing wires, the telegraph operator, Tucumcari, Laredo, Wyatt Earp, Junction City, the Age of Invention, the settlers and then it was all over.

Maybe it started with the Alamo and the Mexican War.

At any rate, by the early 1900’s the West was won, LA was becoming Hollywood, the Gold and Silver mines became corporate mines – replacing the prospectors. Immigrants came, the machine age, North and South reunited in World War I and even the American Indian joined the US Army to fight for their former enemy.

The depression hit and Americans were shocked at the new world. Skyscrapers, flappers, Al Capone, talking pictures, Fords and Studebaker, airplanes, radios and the America of their parents’ youth and the America of their grandfathers’ stories was gone.

The cattle drives gave way to fences, ‘don’t fence me in’ the outlaws were now gangsters or Bonnie and Clyde instead of Billy the Kid.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Everything had changed so fast. Cars 🚘 instead of horses 🐎, streetcars instead of covered wagons. It was gone before they even knew it.

Never had 50 years so completely changed a nation. The America of 1948 bore no resemblance to the America of 1898. The West was gone, the Buffalo nearly destroyed. Wolves and Pumas and American Indians decimated and banished.

Now only dime store novels and Hollywood Westerns took the place of the Wild West. Movies depicted singing cowboys, heroes defending Conestoga wagon trains, stage coaches and trains against a variety of bad guys. The cavalry were the good guys defending the settlers. Then, the unsure anti-heroes were in the showdown against the bad guy.

Good and evil were clear cut and the lone lean American good guy anti-hero took on the bad guy and the cattle rustlers. Once you left the theatre, the world wasn’t so clearly painted in black and white. But in the Wild West, the bad guys wore black, the good guy wore a star.

The generation of kids of 1948 never had a chance to see the West.

Their parents heard a little of it.

Their grandparents caught the last taste of it.

The worst was for their great-grandparents. What if the Wild West was going on and they just didn’t go west to experience it? What if they were stuck in some giant industrial factory in Cleveland or Chicago or living in a New York tenement?

But some went West.

You could be black in the Wild West, a Buffalo soldier or a Cowboy, Asians worked the railroads and helped build San Francisco, women found new freedom out West. Outlaws and former rebels could start a new life.

The Wild West had descended into legend.

But remember, Billy the Kid was born in Brooklyn.

Commo Desk at 25,000 Feet

I once spoke to Major Winters, later famous for ‘Band of Brothers’ – he would come over to the Armory in Hershey, Pennsylvania from his house. (This really happened).

Photo by Gerritt Tisdale on Pexels.com

I just knew him as some old distinguished World War II Vet. (Sorry, I never read the book.)

I told him about this relative of mine from the Army Air Forces. Winters (I did not know his name at the time) said: ‘thank goodness for those guys, they saved us’.

But I digress, back to this Army Air Forces Tech Sergeant: it’s October, 1944.

He sat at the forward-facing commo desk. It was a traditional green Army desk – probably the same style since Mexican border service, but it was anchored to the wall. It was covered with radios, codes, charts, some photos of a new Studebaker he wanted.

He was 18 years old. He grew up reading the science fiction of the 1930’s like The Martian Chronicles and watching tripe like Buck Rogers. There was barely yet any L. Sprague de Camp or Bradbury or Heinlein or Asimov.

He loved science fiction, the stars, imagination – and there he was with his headset on imagining he was in a spaceship instead of flying at 25,000 feet above the National Socialist Entity bouncing amidst the flak and lulled into a false soothing calm by the deafening hum of the engines.

Then came the Messerschmitts and he was now the starboard waist gunner. Then he was back on the comms. Blasé chatter about headings and formations and the weather and the sights.

He stayed in the service for another ten years. He got nuked in the desert at Alamogordo. Then he married, had kids, finished his PhD and died at 48 from acute clastic leukemia. He was reading Herman Wouk’s ‘Winds of War’. It was on the little hospital table next to him when he died.

He was never quite there. He was there enough for the people whom he loved, but a little of him was always at 25,000 feet.

We’ve always missed you and we always will.

Memorial Day 2021

The most riveting, film in American Cinematic History: ‘Funeral Services for President John F. Kennedy’


https://www.jfklibrary.org/asset-viewer/funeral-services-for-president-john-f-kennedy-november-1963-23-25

The horrific aftermath of the assassination of John F. Kennedy was brought to the World in a 44 minute minimalist documentary, the likes of which has never been equaled before or since.

Photo by Ramaz Bluashvili on Pexels.com

At 7:18 all over-production stops and for the next 35 minutes, the cruel, bare eye of the camera coldly presents a crystal clear November day 58 years ago that destroyed the fabric of a nation.

The after effects of watching this televised tragedy created ripples for the next twenty years.

There is no narration.

There are no interviews.

There is no added sound.

There is no post-production.

There is no stage.

There is no artificial lighting.

There is no direction.

The only music is the drum of the military bands in Washington and then bagpipes and funeral music on the bridge to Arlington.

The story is told by the clattering of horses’ hooves and an Air Force One flyover.

The silent agony of the family is unbearable to watch.

Old friends of America, Emperor Selassie Haile the One and General Charles DeGaulle bear solemn tribute to the young President.

The camera and the microphones record the exposed naked reality.

It is solemn and dumbfounding.

National choreography not seen since the death of Abraham Lincoln.

The grief of the spectators and the shocking solemnity of the participants tells the story.

It is bare emotion, antiseptic in its heartless ugliness.

You have to watch this film at night and alone.

The camera work and audio is flawless. It misses nothing and let’s the subject tell the tale.

If you have any hope of being a filmmaker in the Americana genre, no matter where in the world you are from, you must watch this in its entirety.

Some things, some scenes, some sounds, need no narration, artificial direction, sound, lighting or stages.

The subject is the storyteller.

Your audience wants to see your subject.

They don’t want to see or hear you or your opinions or your message or your graphics or your over-direction.

Let the subject tell the story.

If you recognize this and merely capture your subjects as they present themselves, then you can be a great filmmaker.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Thoughts on ‘The Godfather’ by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola

I have a lot of Venetian blood. Like 40% or more. The Jewish community of Venice dates to about 980 A.D.

My grandfather who was quintessentially Italian, always told me we were part Italian. I never believed him (not really – I did believe him). The Jew and the Roman have been mixing since about 200 B.C. So who knows?

Photo by Alexandra Holbea on Pexels.com

The people of Veneto or Venexia do not consider themselves Italian in the true sense but rather Venetian. Southern Italians are not fond of Northern Italians.

Are Piemonti really French? Are Venetiani really Huns? Are Trentini Tyrolean? Are Lombardi Swiss? That’s what Sicilians might think.

I also lived in Brooklyn for a while, so I had an awareness of the ‘Mane Alla Francia In Allancia’. We do not speak its name. My entire life, I avoided the movie, until last week, but I did read the book much earlier.

The problem with epic films 🎥 is that everyone steals from them and every original trope ends up in every subsequent movie.

No spoilers here, but the movie was much better than I thought it would be. It wasn’t crude like ‘Goodfellas’.

It was a timeline of a family – and like some Roman heir to a great family, not everyone wants to be praetor – so it was for Michael Corleone. Vito knew which of his children was the rightful heir.

The acting is brilliant. I don’t see Brando, I see Vito Corleone. Pacino was also brilliant.

Great character development. You’ve got to love Luca Brasi.

Two exceptions. In no way do I believe James Caan as a Siciliano. Trentini maybe. He wasn’t right for the role at all. Diane Keaton. I love her, but I realized that she is one talentless actress. Stilted, unbelievable delivery.
Talia Shire was much better as Connie. Abe Vigoda was perfect, as was the anti-photogenic John Cazale (See The Deer Hunter and The Conversation).

Some say it started a cult of organized crime idolization, but that may have started with The Untouchables.

At any rate, the series, with all its original tropes, always gives you, the viewer, exactly what you want. Excellent film by Francis Ford Coppola and author Mario Puzo.

Peace be the Botendaddy